


On Love: Eros

by renaissance



Series: side effects [4]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Grand Prix Final Banquet, M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-19 08:08:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11309256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renaissance/pseuds/renaissance
Summary: Yuuri promises Celestino he'll stay at the banquet for half an hour. He ends up staying the whole night.(To be read after chapter 10 ofit's the side effects that save us.)





	On Love: Eros

**Author's Note:**

> please make sure you've read at least up to chapter 10 of the main story! this is one of the more heavily divergent moments in this canon divergence/role reversal au. i can definitely recommend the main story. 10/10. not just because i wrote it. i swear.
> 
> infinite thanks to lori for reading over the first draft of this which was, quite frankly, crap, and helping me get it into the finished product you're about to read. a real life-saver!!

“I’m not going.”

Yuuri second-guesses his decision the moment the words leave his mouth, but he’s said it, so there’s no taking it back. There’s a certain level of expectation he knows is going to follow him around now that he’s the Grand Prix gold medallist—he’s never been under any pressure equal to this, and he doesn’t know how it’s going to affect him. The safest choice is to spend the night in his room and deal with it in the morning.

Predictably, Celestino disagrees. “Yuuri, you’re the gold medallist, and you have to set an example. Everyone’s expecting you at the banquet.”

And, there it is. _Expectation_.

“I know,” Yuuri says. “But—”

—but it doesn’t feel like a real win, not when Yuuri knows it only happened because Viktor wasn’t skating at his best.

“But?”

Yuuri grimaces. “If Viktor got to blow off the press conference, then I get to skip the banquet. He’s probably not going to be there either.” Then, trying out the way it sounds, Yuuri adds, “I’m the best in the world. I can do what I want.”

It leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

“We both know that’s not true,” Celestino says, and he only sounds a little bit concerned. “Why don’t you come for—let’s say, an hour. Have a couple of drinks. You’ve earnt something relaxing after how well you skated.”

But that’s just it. Yuuri _didn’t_ skate well. Viktor skated poorly. Can’t anyone see the difference? Or maybe Yuuri can only tell because he’s spent more than half his life watching Viktor, dissecting his every step and jump and spin.

“I can’t,” he says.

Celestino shakes his head. “Half an hour.”

With a sigh, Yuuri concedes. “Half an hour.” No more than an appearance, because he is not Viktor Nikiforov, and he will not run away from this. Viktor, who wouldn’t even take a photo with him. Yuuri knows he would do the same, in Viktor’s position, but that doesn’t need to be how the world sees him.

The banquet hall—a function room in the hotel that hosted all the skaters—is already packed by the time Yuuri arrives. There are tables lining the walls, draped with white tablecloths and bedecked with platters of hors d’oeuvres, waiters circulating with champagne, and for some unfathomable reason, a fireman’s pole poking out from among the crowd. Yuuri even spots Viktor at the far end of the room, and feels bad for judging him. Losing when you’re that good can’t be easy. Still, Yuuri is not going to have a repeat of earlier.

He sticks to Celestino’s side like glue and lets Celestino answer the tricky questions that ISU officials and other doubtlessly important people throw his way. The champagne is flowing readily, and Yuuri drinks to loosen up, then drinks some more. They circulate the room, and with every face that forces Yuuri into politeness, he feels his energy drain incrementally, slipping through his fingers and out of sight. This isn’t a problem for the first twenty-five of the thirty minutes Yuuri promised Celestino.

Then, just as Yuuri is getting ready to leave, he comes face to face with Viktor Nikiforov.

“Evening, Viktor,” Celestino says, far too casually for Yuuri’s liking. “Congratulations on medalling again.”

It’s a polite way of saying, _Sorry my student beat you_. Yuuri wants to melt into the carpet.

“Thank you,” Viktor says. He sounds exactly like he sounds in every interview Yuuri’s ever seen him give—which is most of them, because Yuuri has been a fan for a _long_ time.

“You gave a very stirring performance at the exhibition,” Celestino continues. “What’s next for you? Russian Nationals, is it?”

Viktor pauses, and Yuuri swears his eyes actually glaze over, like in a cartoon. There’s a terrifying moment of blank unreality in Viktor’s expression. It only lasts a few seconds, and Yuuri would’ve missed it if he’d been able to tear his eyes away from Viktor for anything longer than the time it takes to blink. Here he is with the perfect opportunity to meet his idol properly, after five long years of competing in the senior circuit, and Yuuri can’t do anything except stare, open-mouthed.

“Yes, that’s right,” Viktor says eventually. That empty look is gone. He takes a sip of the champagne he’s holding, contemplative. “And Japanese nationals for you, Yuuri?”

It’s another few seconds before Yuuri recovers from being addressed directly. “Y-yes.”

Viktor’s expression softens. He’s almost smiling when he says, “You’re a beautiful performer. I’m sure you’ll win another gold medal.”

There’s nothing bitter in it, which is what surprises Yuuri most. If he were in Viktor’s shoes, he would _hate_ himself. He was certain Viktor did hate him, after the way he walked away earlier, but—no, this sounds sincere.

“Thank you,” Yuuri managers. “I—I’m a huge fan of yours.”

Celestino brings his champagne flute up to his mouth to cover a laugh. It’s not malicious, but Yuuri sort of wishes it was. He deserves to be laughed at.

Viktor doesn’t laugh. Viktor says, “Oh, I know; I can tell by the way you skate,” and then he _winks_ at Yuuri. Yuuri always had the impression that Viktor’s reputation as a playboy was a bit of an overstatement, but being on the receiving end of it is—something else. In that moment, he believes everything the press has ever said about Viktor Nikiforov. He is utterly charmed.

“Thank you,” Yuuri says again. He is making the biggest fool of himself and he’s not even drunk yet. Okay, maybe he’s a little tipsy. But—it’s _Viktor_. In a last ditch effort to redeem himself, Yuuri adds, “I’m really looking forward to facing you again at Worlds.”

It’s a clear ending. Viktor says a polite goodbye—more to Celestino than to Yuuri—and walks back through the crowd to where the Russian contingent are gathered.

Celestino nudges Yuuri. “I think you have an admirer. He’s looking.”

Yuuri narrows his eyes and feels his head spin. He might be more tipsy than he thought.

“Over there,” Celestino clarifies, and to Yuuri’s absolute horror, he gestures to where Viktor is standing, talking to—Yuri Plisetsky, is it? The Junior World Champion, another one of Yakov Feltsman’s students, about to move up to the senior division. Yuuri does recognise him, although he doesn’t know what he’s doing here. But Viktor—

“He’s not looking at me,” Yuuri says. He doesn’t know whether to be disappointed or angry.

Celestino looks confused for half a second. “You mean Viktor? I do think he seemed fond of you, Yuuri—but I meant your namesake.”

Sure enough, when Yuuri turns his head away, he catches Plisetsky snatching a glance in his direction, his determined stare tempered by an absolutely foul scowl. Yuuri is about to say something, but his words flee him a second later, driven away by an arm draped over his shoulder. Yuuri is the Grand Prix Final gold medallist, and he is perfectly dignified, thank you very much, and he does _not_ yelp.

“Oh, Yuuri, why the long face?” It’s Christophe. “You’ve just won a gold medal. You’re allowed to smile, you know.”

Yuuri shrugs, which has the not entirely unfortunate side effect of displacing Christophe’s very warm and very muscular arm so it slides further down his back. “I hate banquets. They’re so awkward.”

“Awkward, boring, uninspiring,” Christophe says. “What can we do to make it a little bit more fun, hmm?”

“Leave,” Yuuri says immediately. “I mean—not in that way.”

Not entirely not in that way, though. Yuuri is not above flirting after—how much champagne? When he looks to his right hand side, Celestino has disappeared, leaving him alone with Christophe. Yuuri is not entirely against that either, and maybe if it was any other night, and he was drunk on anything else, he would finally give in and respond to Christophe’s naturally flirtatious manner. But this is the Grand Prix Final banquet, and _Viktor_ is here, and Viktor knows Yuuri is here—and there’s a part of Yuuri that refuses to grow up from the stupid sixteen year old who decided he was going to beat Viktor Nikiforov at some competition, and then finally Viktor would notice him, and then they’d get married, or whatever.

Yuuri was supposed to leave the banquet five minutes ago. That stray voice of hope says, _Tonight could be the night_.

Christophe doesn’t seem to notice Yuuri’s nerves, his rollercoaster train of thought. He just laughs, and says, “Actually, I had another idea. You see that pole over there?”

“I was wondering about that,” Yuuri says. “Is this place a converted fire station, or something?”

“Oh, Yuuri.” Christophe clicks his tongue. “Dear, sweet, innocent Yuuri. That’s a pole for _dancing_.”

Yuuri resents being called dear, sweet, and innocent. “No way.”

“Absolutely yes. The gossip from the waiters is that there was some sort of pole dancing conference at this hotel just before the GPF. They set up in this room and forgot to uninstall the pole. The technician can’t get here until next week. It’s motorised and everything.”

“I don’t believe you,” Yuuri decides, with all the candour that alcohol affords him.

“Come, then, I’ll prove you wrong.”

Christophe takes Yuuri by the hand and pulls him through the crowd towards the pole. Sure enough, there’s a small box at the bottom with LED lights and switches, and when Christophe leans down to flick one of them, the pole begins rotating in place.

He clears his throat, shrugs, and in one swift movement his jacket slips off his shoulders.

“Hold my blazer, Yuuri. It’s Armani.”

Yuuri barely has time to fumble the blazer over his shoulder before Christophe starts unbuttoning his shirtsleeves, rolling them up, and wrapping one Armani-clad leg around the pole, lifting himself off the floor.

“Wow,” Yuuri says. He watches dumbly as Christophe spins in an impressive arc, twisting as he moves. “You’re—”

“I’ve taken classes,” Christophe says, hopping off the pole like it’s nothing. “This would be so much easier without trousers on.”

And then, in the middle of the banquet hall, surrounded by people in glitzy formal wear, Christophe takes off his pants.

It’s not as though Yuuri has never seen anyone pole dance before. He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but he’s taken classes too. There’s an itch under the palms of his hands and he so desperately wants to join Christophe up there, but he’s better than that. He’s the gold medallist, and Viktor is still out in the crowd somewhere—Yuuri certainly wouldn’t want Viktor to think any worse of him than he probably already does.

People are starting to stare. Christophe doesn’t seem to mind. He has very impressive thighs. There’s light music playing, just background noise, and Christophe ignores the beat to create his own rhythm. He moves with such purpose—Yuuri is jealous. He’s never been able to dance like that, not even when he’s drunk.

Oh. More champagne. That’s an idea.

Yuuri slips away from the pole to get another drink, and when he returns, one flute of champagne in each hand, he finds Viktor there with Christophe— _Viktor_ —hanging off Christophe’s arm and gushing praise about how good his dancing is. Maybe Viktor would be impressed if Yuuri started pole dancing too.

In the middle of an inoffensive Strauss waltz, the music changes. Yuuri downs one of his glasses and it hits him immediately. This is a more upbeat tune, a pop song. He puts the empty glass down on the floor, drinks the other so he can get rid of both of them, and loosens his tie. He’ll bring out his best. He’ll show Viktor.

He starts dancing, moving into Christophe’s orbit. This, at least, is something Yuuri knows he’s good at. Before he can get to the pole, though, he’s accosted by the grumpy child that Celestino had called his admirer.

“ _You_ ,” Plisetsky says, jabbing an accusing finger into Yuuri’s chest. “Dance-off. Now.”

“A dance-off?” This is the kind of situation when Yuuri puts himself to one side. It’s Drunk Yuuri’s time to shine. “I don’t even know who you are.”

Plisetsky’s eyes go furiously wide. “You—I—I’m Yuri Plisetsky, the Ice Tiger of Russia, and I’m your rival, starting right now. As far as I’m concerned, there’s only room for one Yuri in the senior division.”

The crowd around them has gone deathly quiet, stuttering to silence in time with the way Plistesky raises his voice. Yuuri can’t hold it in for much longer. He bursts out laughing, toppling backwards and nearly knocking over his empty glasses sitting on the floor.

“You bastard,” Plisetsky snaps. “You knew who I was!”

“And I’m ready to honour your challenge!” Yuuri declares, righting himself. He pauses, and adds, “If you’ll explain why you issued it.”

Plisetsky doesn’t answer immediately, like he didn’t expect to be called up on that. “I saw you dancing,” he says eventually. “I’m better than you.”

If Yuuri were sober, he would more cogently recognise that this is a young athlete finding an opportunity to talk to someone he admires. Maybe he even got them to change the music. Yuuri is not sober, though, and since coming to the banquet in the first place was a bad decision, what’s one more?

From somewhere behind his back, Yuuri hears Viktor say, “Now _this_ I want to see.”

Yuuri draws his strength from Viktor’s words and straightens his back out. He gives Plisetsky his best glare. “Let’s go.”

A space has cleared around them, a temporary dance floor with the pole at its centre, because none of these stuffy officials want to get close to a gaggle of inebriated skaters and one very determined teenager. The sound system is still playing upbeat music—Yuuri wonders if Plisetsky got someone to change it—and Plisetsky starts by trying to breakdance. It’s very cute, and he moves well, but there’s an evident lack of finesse. It reminds Yuuri of himself, in his first years of ballet.

So he joins in. There’s a crowd formed around them—mostly other skaters—but Yuuri is no stranger to dancing for an audience. What’s different this time is that he has this distinct feeling at the back of his head, like he’s being watched, and an even worse feeling that he knows _who_ is watching him.

Then there’s a moment. Everything seems to slow as Yuuri pulls his shoulders back and pushes his chest forward, one leg stepping out to the side. He pauses, turns his head to look over his shoulder, and makes direct eye contact with Viktor.

Yuuri is unprepared. What are you meant to do in this sort of situation? None of the parties Yuuri went to in college taught him what to do in this situation. Impulsively, he licks his lips, and Viktor, who is always so good at keeping a cool head in public, falters, his mouth hanging open. Yuuri is so shocked he stops moving entirely.

“Hey, Katsuki!” Plisetsky grabs him by the shoulder and spins him back around so they’re facing again. “Giving up so easily?”

“Giving up?” Yuuri says. He squints down at Plisetsky and gives himself time to think of an appropriate response. What comes out of his mouth is, “Looks to me like you were losing. I don’t pick on people if I know I’m out of their league.”

“Out of my—”

Christophe interrupts, letting out a hoot of laughter. “Yuuri, you should take me on. Have you ever pole danced before?”

Plisetsky storms off, furious, which is good, because Yuuri wouldn’t want to do what he’s about to do next in front of a child. He turns to Christophe. “Yes, you know that—”

“ _I_ want to try,” Viktor says. He gives Yuuri and Christophe a big, excited-puppy-grin. “Can I try?”

“‘I don’t pick on people if I know I’m out of their league,’” Christophe echoes, but he seems genuinely concerned. “If you’ve never—”

“Oh, _please_! How hard can it be?” Viktor swings a leg up around the pole. He tilts backwards, putting the back of his hand over his forehead like he’s swooning. “Look! I’m a performer!”

This is such a sudden change from the refined living legend Yuuri spoke to earlier, all stock phrases and what Yuuri assumed was just forced kindness. Yuuri would say he’s drunk, but there’s no distinctive swagger in his step, nothing to indicate it other than the change in attitude. Maybe it’s just because Celestino isn’t around?

“I would really advise against it,” Christophe says.

Viktor steps back from the pole and unbuttons his fly. “You said this was easier without trousers, right?”

Well, maybe he’s a little drunk. So is Yuuri. He can’t blame Viktor. In fact, Yuuri can’t do much at all, because Viktor is pulling down his pants and, oh my god, he’s wearing boxer briefs—Yuuri’s stance in the Great Underwear Modelling Debate of 2010 that broke out on the figure skating side of LiveJournal, vindicated—and he has incredible legs—which Yuuri already knew, after the Great Underwear Modelling Debate of 2007—and Yuuri desperately cannot look away.

“Let’s get down to business,” Viktor says, which only goes part of the way to snapping Yuuri out of his daze. “Chris, teach me.”

“Actually,” Christophe says, giving Yuuri a very wicked look indeed, “Yuuri here is a much better teacher than I am.”

Yuuri shoots a variation of that look back at Chris. _Traitor_. It was Chris who’d convinced him to take lessons, all those years ago. Chris has years more experience, and he knows Viktor—but then again, he also knows about Yuuri’s crush on Viktor.

And now Viktor is looking at Yuuri like he’s a gold medal. “Really, Yuuri? You’d teach me how to pole dance?”

“Um,” Yuuri says.

“Great!” Viktor says. “What should I do next?”

“Maybe turn the motor off first,” Chris suggests, reaching down to flick the switch.

Viktor pouts. Specifically, he pouts _at Yuuri_ , and Yuuri melts. He would do anything for that pathetic frown.

“Okay, so hold onto the pole with both hands. Tightly. Make sure your leg is tight too, and then—”

Viktor is one step ahead of Yuuri, lifting his other leg off the ground in a great swing. His foot is arched like a ballet dancer, toes pointed. It’s graceful, lovely to watch, but very poor pole form. Viktor kicks his leg out too high and overbalancing, toppling backwards, and in his wide-eyed surprise, he lets go of the pole.

Time seems to slow in the terrifyingly long seconds between Viktor falling and Yuuri jumping out to catch him. One of Yuuri’s hands goes to Viktor’s back by reflex; the other sticks out in front of Viktor, and in turn Viktor catches it, linking their fingers together. With his back bent like that and one foot dangling in the air, it looks for all the world like Yuuri is dipping him.

“Wow,” Viktor breathes. “You’re _strong_.”

Yuuri is every romantic cliché at once, lost in Viktor's eyes. They’re still paused like that. “Thanks… ?”

“Do you think you could lift me?” Viktor asks. “I want to dance with you! Will you dance with me, Yuuri?”

“Yes,” is out of Yuuri’s mouth before he can think twice about it. He wants to dance with Viktor more than he’s wanted anything, ever, in his entire life.

Slowly, he pulls Viktor up so that they’re both standing. The difference in their heights is even more noticeable when they’re standing like this— _kissing distance_ , Yuuri thinks, unbidden. Yuuri still has one hand on Viktor’s back and his other linked with Viktor’s, so they’re ready to do any number of ballroom dances that Yuuri’s learnt over the years. He thinks a simple slow dance would be a good place to start, and so romantic too.

Viktor launches straight into a tango.

“Are you a dancer?” he asks. “You skate like a dancer.”

Yuuri nods. “Yeah, I am. I trained in ballet before I started skating.”

“I trained in ballet _because_ I started skating,” Viktor says. He sighs like he’s calling to mind some wistful memory, but then he says, “I don’t miss it.”

“Can I ask why?” Yuuri is hesitant; he doesn’t want to push Viktor too far, not when they’ve only just met. But—he would be foolish to say there was nothing between them. “If you’re comfortable telling me.”

“Some people are—what’s the expression?—a jack of all trades, master of none.”

Viktor turns, and this time he dips Yuuri. Out of the corner of his eye, Yuuri can see Christophe taking photos. He doesn’t have it in him to care, giggling with giddiness as the blood runs to his head, then staggering back to balance as Viktor pulls him up again.

“I am a master of one thing,” Viktor continues, “and one thing only. Of course, I had the technical talent to excel at ballet, but I only had that because of the dance I’d already learnt as a skater. It was too much of a distraction to waste time trying to become brilliant at something else. Because… that’s the thing, isn’t it? Once you’re brilliant, you can’t ever go back to feeling mediocre.”

It doesn’t sound boastful when Viktor calls himself brilliant. If anything, he sounds a bit like it embarrasses him. That, Yuuri doesn’t understand. “So now that I’ve won a gold medal—”

“Whatever you do,” Viktor says, “don’t let it—”

“Get to my head?” Yuuri rolls his eyes. “I’ve heard that one before.”

Viktor shakes his head. “That’s not what I was going to say. Don’t—don’t let it become your whole life.”

Yuuri doesn’t know how to feel about that. Viktor wouldn’t be as good as he is, wouldn’t be a living legend if he hadn’t let it become his whole life. The world knows that Viktor Nikiforov lives and breathes figure skating, but the way he paints himself, he sounds like a sad workaholic.

Buoyed by his liquid confidence, Yuuri asks, “Do you regret it?”

Viktor smiles so sadly that Yuuri could swear he hears the sound of his own heart shattering. “Not a moment of it,” Viktor says.

“Then I—” Yuuri presses his lips together, choosing his words. “I hope you’ll continue to… not regret it.”

“Ah,” Viktor says. “You’re so cute.”

It comes out of the blue and, just like that, all of Yuuri’s insecurities come flooding back. Here is his idol telling Yuuri he’s cute, but—he’s had a bit to drink, he doesn’t mean it. There’s nothing Yuuri can say, so Yuuri says nothing.

Viktor waits while Yuuri says nothing, to the beat of a new, down-tempo song, and when he seems to grow bored of waiting he switches up their positions and takes Yuuri by the hands, swirling into an easy waltz. _Cute_ , Yuuri thinks, turning it over in his mind. How can Viktor say that, when he’s so much more beautiful up close? It would be so easy just to reach out and—

As Yuuri’s fingers trail along Viktor’s perfect jawline, Viktor’s hand follows, and his gaze too, like Yuuri’s hand is the most marvellous thing he’s ever seen. For all Yuuri knows, maybe it is.

“You know,” he says, because now they’re slow-dancing and he has to say _something_ , “you skated so well. Even if—I know you’re probably not used to coming second, but. You were so wonderful. Watching you is always such an experience. Every one of your performances is like a gift.”

“I’d give you so much more,” Viktor says, so openly that Yuuri almost believes him. “I’d give you everything. I don’t mind that you beat me.”

“But you wouldn’t take a photo with me,” Yuuri blurts out. “I mean—”

Viktor cuts Yuuri off by spinning him in an inelegant circle. At the very least, the crowd has parted enough to give them room to pull it off. “I’ll tell you all about that,” Viktor says, “some other time. Will you keep dancing with me?”

That shy smile on his face—Yuuri is going to treasure it. He nods.

So they don’t talk after that, and maybe they don’t need to. It’s not as though there’s bad blood between them. A bit of _weird_ blood, perhaps. Certainly no-one in the skating world was expecting a dime-a-dozen skater like Yuuri to come out of nowhere and beat the reigning world champion. _Yuuri_ wasn’t expecting it. But it doesn’t seem like Viktor cares about any of that—or if he does, he doesn’t want to think about it. There are these hints he’s dropping, like somehow he could be genuinely attracted to Yuuri, and Yuuri doesn’t know what to make of that.

The party that was supposed to be a formal banquet is winding down now. There’s no more champagne flowing, and Viktor’s discarded pants are easy to spot in the thinning crowd. Viktor breaks apart from Yuuri only to put them back on.

When he gets back, there must be something in his expression, because Viktor says, “Don’t worry, I’ll take them off again later.”

Yuuri swallows. “Later?”

Viktor’s eyes are so wide. His pupils take up so much of his brilliant blue irises. Yuuri has never looked in so much detail at someone else’s eyes before. Viktor nods in the direction of the door. Yuuri nods too, just once. The understand that passes between them has far too much depth for so few seconds. Viktor holds out a hand, and Yuuri takes it, and they make their escape.

This is a different reality. It’s one thing for Yuuri to take a stab in the dark and guess that, for whatever reason—alcohol, atmosphere—Viktor is attracted to him, another entirely to accept the natural consequences of that attraction. No sooner are they out the door than Viktor’s hands are roaming all over, fumbling at Yuuri’s tie, and they barely last a few minutes before they have to stop in an empty hallway, darkly lit, because the tension is too much to hold out until they make it to one of their hotel rooms.

“Never wanted anything like I want this,” Viktor mumbles, face pressed into the crook of Yuuri’s neck as he finally manages the knot in the tie. “Need to—get my mind off it—”

That, Yuuri understands. This is something he’s done many times to get his mind off many things. But if this happens the way he thinks it might happen, just like in so many of his fantasies, then this won’t be like any other sex Yuuri’s had. All those other times, he’d caught himself closing his eyes and imagining that the man beneath him or above him or following him into his room had this pale hair, these blue eyes, those extra seven centimetres of height.

And now, here he is. Viktor is bent forward, like it’s hard for him to look Yuuri in the eye. Still, he pulls Yuuri closer, and the way this contact feels so electric even through their clothes is _insane_. Yuuri is going to die in this hallway, never mind making it back to one of their rooms.

“Want to—” Viktor stops, pulling back. “Yuuri, I could be your coach!”

The mood shift feels like whiplash. It’s not what Yuuri was expecting. “You, uh… ?”

Viktor clasps his hands together, their flirtation apparently forgotten. But he’s unusually soft-spoken when he says, “Let me be your coach, Yuuri. You can come to Saint Petersburg. Or, I’ll come to wherever you live.”

“I already have a coach,” Yuuri says. He shakes his head as though somehow that’ll dispel the messy thoughts. “You don’t mean that. You’re just saying it. Tomorrow, you’ll—”

“I’ll wait,” Viktor says. “Until you need a coach. I’ll be ready for you.”

Yuuri doesn’t know if he’ll ever be ready. He feels confused and heavy and this night has taken about ten different turns from what he imagined it being, which was lying on his bed and watching incomprehensible Russian TV and trying to forget all about Viktor Nikiforov.

“You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“When you need a coach, give me a sign.” Viktor leans forward again, his head coming to rest on Yuuri’s shoulder. “Give me a sign. I’ll come.”

Yuuri opens his mouth to respond, but Viktor is as good as gone. He’s asleep. Yuuri huffs out a laugh. “Looks like you’re giving me a sign you want to go to bed, huh?”

Viktor mumbles something in what must be Russian.

Sighing, Yuuri reaches around in his pockets and finds Viktor’s swipe card. “Let’s get you to your room.”

He wants to be disappointed that this didn’t go anywhere, but there’s still tomorrow. They’ll still be in the same hotel, and they might be leaving from the same airport. Viktor can make shallow promises in the dark, and he can flirt with Yuuri all he likes, but the real test of it will be the morning after. Will he still mean all those things he said when he sees Yuuri in the light of day, without the rose-tinted veneer of the evening bubbling like champagne over everything?

Does it matter?

Yuuri will always have this night. He’ll always have the way he _knows_ Viktor felt about him, even if only for a few hours. He’ll have to get Christophe to send across those pictures he took. And tomorrow, even if all the only thing that passes between them is a few minutes of pleasantries, Yuuri will make sure he uses that time to get Viktor’s number. That’s a thought to keep him going.

He helps Viktor into his room; he doesn’t switch on the light, carefully guiding him to the bed and setting him down gently. As Viktor is lying down, he takes Yuuri’s hand and kisses his wrist. It’s no more than a passing sensation but Yuuri feels it more keenly than he’s felt anything else since the burden of that gold medal around his neck.

This, at least, he knows is real.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri knocks on Viktor’s door the next morning. There’s no answer.

 

* * *

 

Being back in Hasetsu is—strange, at first. The fresh spring air hits Yuuri like a knife through all of his senses, the smell of the sea breeze and the cries of the gulls, the feeling of being _home_ again, after five long years. After stopping in at home and leaving Minako in the capable hands of a bottle of beer, Yuuri goes straight for the rink. Whenever his senses threaten to overwhelm him, there’s one place he can turn to for respite.

The paint on the walls of Ice Castle Hasetsu has faded, but Yuuko has flourished. When Yuuri left, she was a teen mother with newborn triplets, always stressed and always tired, too busy to see him off when he left for Detroit. Not that he blamed her. Now, he sees a grown woman behind the counter.

“Sorry, we’re just about to— _Yuuri_!”

“Hi, Yuuko,” he says, as she flings herself over the counter to hug him. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

“Look how tall you are!” Yuuko says, pinching his cheeks. “Little Yuuri from Hasetsu, an international superstar. I’m so proud of you.”

Yuuri can feel the heat of a blush spreading across his cheeks. “I wouldn’t go that far—”

“No, no, don’t argue,” Yuuko says. She pulls away from him at last. “Did you want to skate?”

“Yeah.”

Ice Castle Hasetsu is almost more of a home to Yuuri than his home itself. It doesn’t help that his home doubles as a holiday resort, the only one still operational in the town—Yuuri is proud of it, but the constant presence of strangers always unsettled him, and the rink was the one place he could be unconditionally alone.

Yuuko leads the way into the rink and stands by as Yuuri laces up his skates. He feels wobbly at first, but the ice here is familiar and welcoming. He skates a few figures, reacquainting himself with the space, does a few single jumps, and then makes his way back to where Yuuko’s waiting by the barrier.

Almost reflexively, Yuuri lets out a long, contented sigh. “I missed this place.”

“So what now?” Yuuko asks. “What’s next for the new world champion?”

“Actually, I—” Yuuri hesitates before continuing. “I don’t know what I’ll do for the next season. I’m thinking of retiring.”

Yuuko visibly flinches backwards. “Retiring? You’re at the top of your game, Yuuri!”

“I’m not really thinking of retiring,” he admits. “I mean—most days, I feel like retiring, but now—it depends on whether I can find a coach.”

“Is that why you left Detroit?”

“I left because I missed home,” Yuuri says. “And Celestino has been working more and more with Phichit, so I thought—it would be best for Phichit if he could keep skating at his home rink, too. Celestino will be spending most of the year with him in Bangkok.”

He knows it’s a flimsy excuse even as he says it. Celestino’s decision had come after Yuuri told him they would be parting ways, and it’s cheap of him to put all the blame on Phichit, but Yuuri doesn’t want to tell anyone why he really parted ways with Celestino. He wants it to be his secret like it was his secret that night, whispered words half-remembered in a dark corner of the hotel and a promise, one that Yuuri has not forgotten.

Yuuko nods. “So do you have any idea of who you’ll approach? Minako could coach you again.”

“She doesn’t want to bother with that again,” Yuuri says, even though he hasn’t so much as talked to Minako about it. “I—actually, I do have one idea.”

 _When you need a coach, give me a sign_.

“Do you have a video camera handy?”

“I can ask the girls,” Yuuko says. “They’ll know where it is. Why do you need it?”

Yuuri thinks of Viktor’s free skate at the Grand Prix Final. Seeing it on TV was one thing—seeing it in person was like watching a painter create a masterpiece. Viktor hadn’t been as technically brilliant as usual—that was why Yuuri had managed to win—but he radiated musicality, artistry, raw emotion in that performance. Yuuri will never forget the way Viktor skated that day. Like he was drowning below an ice-covered lake, only the sheer force of his longing to propel him back to the surface. Or something like sadness.

 _Give me a sign_.

And maybe, if Viktor still feels anywhere near as much longing as Yuuri does, then he’ll hear Yuuri calling out to him— _Stay Close To Me_.

 _I’ll come_.

“I want to skate something,” Yuuri says, “and I need you to film it.”

**Author's Note:**

> and the rest is, as they say, history.
> 
> a quick note on memory and the lack thereof: i'm of the opinion that, in canon, yuuri's lack of memory of that night not just a result of him being blackout drunk, but perhaps more due to some form of dissociative amnesia. it can occur when someone is going through something traumatic, or heavily stressful, and for yuuri that banquet was probably both, especially given vicchan's death. i have taken a similar approach in this story with viktor and the banquet, and it definitely informed the way i wrote this chapter. i'm saying this just in case anyone is inclined to say viktor didn't seem drunk enough to forget all of this—yes, i know, i did that on purpose. this kind of thing is hard to make clear from yuuri's POV but there are hints of it in the story above if you know where to look :)


End file.
